


cold bitch

by thefudge



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 3x04, F/M, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but FP pines more let's face it, catholic kink, hooo boy the sexual tension, jeronica AU tbh, soundtrack: cool girl by tove lo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 08:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16573478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: “Anyway…” she trails off, “I hope that satisfies your ego.” It doesn’t. Not even one bit.





	cold bitch

**Author's Note:**

> THESE TWO ASSHOLES, i had to take several cold showers.  
> anyway, this takes place during 3x04 but it is also a continuation of what might have happened after the party and the principal's death. enjoy!

 

The Catholic schoolgirl shtick shouldn’t work.

For a while, it doesn’t.

Hermione’s a pretty girl underneath those bottle-cap glasses and too long skirt, but she has a way of denying everything that’s vaguely interesting and fun about her. She’s just plain _dour_. That’s an SAT word for you. He's serious about being the first Jones to go to college.  

Her sob story doesn’t impress him either. Her mom works her ass off to make sure she gets to have an education and all Hermione can do is complain about life being unfair. She has no clue.

Or maybe she does, but he doesn’t want to give her the benefit of the doubt.

He’s not dead-set against her. In fact, if she asked nicely, he’d take her for a spin. But she doesn’t. She pretends she’s not into him, even though he catches her looking at him in class. She’s subtle, fingers her crucifix nervously, shifts in her seat, eyes straying to the window, but he knows exactly where she was staring. Whenever he asks her about the homework, she stammers a little bit before telling him archly that he can’t copy off her.

“I wasn’t gonna, princess.” And he winks at her.

Hermione does a poor job of hiding her blush. She’s not immune to him, not at all.

And this is what bothers him; she still pretends that she’s impervious. Another SAT word for you.

She pretends – and really _insists_ – that she’s not like the other girls who can’t wait to get on the back of his bike. She acts like she’s above it all.

Alice might snarl at him when they’re in public, but she melts under his fingers in the broom closet. And really, she’s a softie underneath all that red flannel and angry corsets. God, he loves taking them off.

Whereas, Hermione Gomez might act a little shy and awkward, leading you to think she’ll turn into water the minute you touch her, but no – deep down, she’s a cold bitch. She's not liquid, she's crystallized. She’s the crystal in the vending machine.  

Okay – maybe he’s still a _little_ sour about that.

But he had her. He _almost_ had her. Almost got her to admit she likes him. Her dark eyes were unguarded, looked at him with real yearning.

And then she pushed him away, because that’s what she does.

Because she has to deny this side of her – the fun, messy, daring side. When they play Gargoyles and Gryphons, he catches glimpses of a different Hermione. A different facet of the crystal.

But it’s still a goddamn crystal.

Truth be told, he doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not like he’s that into her.

He just wants to be proven right, is all.

 

 

 _Come on, Eileen_ is playing from the cassette-player as Penelope does a strange kick-boxing dance atop the foosball table. Everyone claps in encouragement. Sierra and Tom are making out under that same table. It’s weird and endearing. Hiram and Mantle are beating up Fred with his own sword, but the latter is curled up on the floor, laughing. Spirits are high, like _literally_ high.

He doesn’t know where Alice has gone off to. He feels like letting loose with someone.

FP looks around.

He spots Hermione. She’s sitting on the window sill, legs slightly parted, giggling her head off, clapping her hands to the music. He stares at the knee-length socks and the darkness just visible between her thighs.

The Catholic shtick still doesn’t work for him. It doesn’t.

His head swims with cheap kiddie drugs. Nothing like the hard stuff his dad peddles, but that’s what makes it so potent.

He saunters towards the window, letting his finger run down the initials Alice has carved into the wood. He likes the feel of the indentations.

Hermione notices his presence immediately and primly closes her legs.

FP’s hand lands boldly on her kneecap, skimming the lining of her socks. He smiles stupidly. “My lady. You can’t resist me forever.”

Hermione takes hold of his wrist and yanks his hand away, but she can’t help the flush in her cheeks, the smile stashed in a corner of her mouth. “Leave room for Jesus, FP.”

He wonders if the drugs have no effect on her. If she’s immune somehow.

But in the next moment, she takes his hand and raises it slowly to her chest. Her eyes are glazed, looking through him. FP swallows audibly. Hermione Gomez is about to put his hand on her breast. The shirts she wears are always thick cotton, never giving an inkling of a bra. For all he knows, she’s not wearing one. No, of _course_ she is. Her tits are too full and perky. God, did he say that out loud? Doesn’t matter. He’s moments away from feeling them through her shirt –

Daryl Doiley stumbles into him, spilling his drink against his back, pushing him off-course.

FP misses the target. He doesn’t get to touch her.

Hermione jumps off the window sill with a scandalized giggle.

“You’re all wet,” she remarks, looking at FP through hooded eyes.

He has to restrain himself from throttling Daryl.

 

 

Next Monday it all goes to shit. The principal is found dead in a closet. The funeral for Mr. Andrews is full of tears and self-recrimination because Fred wasn’t there for his dad on his deathbed. Then Alice comes up with a story about two poisoned goblets and a Gargoyle king. There’s no room for either FP or Hermione to dredge up the moment at the party. There’s too much going on. Besides, did it even _happen_? The events of that night feel like a strange fever dream.

No, that’s not true.

That moment is crystal clear. Every facet of it, stark against darkness. He clenches his fist under the table at Pop’s, avoids looking at Hermione, though his eyes stray, the same way her eyes linger in class.

 

 

He remembers the first time he met Hermione Gomez. Seventh grade, spring semester. She and her mom had just moved back into town. Mrs. Gomez was returning to Riverdale after a tumultuous divorce which had depleted her small funds and most of her Catholic guilt. She was in desperate need of money. She got a job at the Five Seasons, even though she was over-qualified. Little Hermione’s shirts were always pressed. The collars were always starched. The socks whiter than fresh snow.

That was the first impression he got of her; this dark little creature, cuffed in white. Pristinely attired, but carrying something not so clean inside her. He remembers how she screamed when one of the kids accidentally stepped on her sneakers and dirtied the alabaster of her shoe. She screeched like a banshee. Afterwards, she was calm and collected.

FP wondered how much louder she could scream.

He waited until it was her turn to clean the whiteboard after first period Math. He picked up the sharpie from Mr. Feathertop’s desk. He grabbed hold of her shoulder and drew an ugly black ‘X’ across the back of her white shirt.

Hermione did not scream.

She turned around slowly, eyes wide and black and cold. Her upper lip trembled but she did not scream.

She took a step back, until her back was pressed up against the whiteboard.

FP laughed uneasily, but Hermione Gomez stayed that way for the whole break. She did not move from that spot even when the teacher came in and classes started. She had to be pulled away by force and taken to the principal’s office. At first, she put up a struggle. She didn’t want anyone to see the ‘X’. She issued an inhuman howl. They _couldn’t_ move her.

At length, FP had to confess what he’d done. The situation was bordering on the unbearable.

He got two days’ worth of detention and a firm scolding. Later that night, he got a nice cheek polish from his dad. A part of him hated her that day and carried that hate with him for years, but another part admired her inability to let go, that unyielding hardness underneath.

 

 

She’s a cold bitch, he stands by that assessment.

Entitlement runs through her veins, even if she spends her weekends helping her mom clean up toilets.

How does he know this?

Mrs. Gomez doesn’t just clean rooms at the Five Seasons. She has a shift at the Shady Palm Motel too, the seedier side of town.

And sometimes Hermione covers for her. Her mom probably doesn’t feel good about letting her daughter change the sheets in a place run down by hookers and Serpents, but she needs both jobs.

It happens one Saturday night, two weeks after Mr. Andrews’ funeral. He’s a little drunk, checks into the motel with one of the Vixens, tries to shove aside his guilt regarding Alice, his jealousy regarding Hal Cooper.

He has an arm slung over the girl’s shoulder – he knows her nickname is Sunny, but that’s about it – and he’s walking her to the room when the door opens before them and out comes Hermione in an unsavory maid’s uniform, crucifix glittering at her neck, rolling up a trolley of cleaning products and soggy towels.

She stops mid-motion, freezes like a deer in the headlights. FP pulls back, drops his hand from Sunny’s shoulder. His eyes rove over Hermione. He knows he should probably look away. She’s probably mortified.

And yet, he keeps staring.

Hermione inhales sharply, quirks her lips into a briny smile. “Your room is ready. There’s no smoking allowed indoors. Have fun, you two.”

And she swerves the trolley past him, sashaying in her loafers and impractical skirt.

And _that’s_ when it finally works for him. The Catholic shtick.

It’s ridiculous how much blood flows straight to his dick when he sees the crucifix dangling out of her cleavage, ass sticking out as she pushes the trolley away.  

He runs a hand through his hair. _Shit._

Sunny looks at him questioningly. He’s not one to hesitate. He drags her inside. “Come on.”

He fucks her against the sink in the small utility bathroom. Sunny has an obsession with mirrors, with seeing herself while he fucks her. He’s okay with that. She doesn’t really care for the sex; she just likes the overall experience. She likes watching herself, pretending he’s not behind her. He suspects she’s a closeted lesbian who can’t come to terms with what she wants. He doesn’t feel guilty about picturing someone else in her stead. He’s thinking of straight dark hair that spills into the sink, crucifix dangling over the edge. Hermione would try to stifle the sounds, would try to bite off the vowels. He loves a challenge. He drives into her with his whole body, resting his chin against her shoulder, trying to make her scream.

Sunny complains about the punishing rhythm. “Jesus, slow down, I don’t wanna get sore.”

He’s embarrassed with himself, but he still comes.

When they’re finished, they lie down and watch TV and share a bag of chips. Sunny falls asleep with her head against the plastic bag.  

FP is restless. He wants to get out of here, but it’d be rude to wake her up.

He slips out of the room soundlessly. The hallway is empty.

He strolls down the patio, peeking into every slanted door for a glimpse of the trolley.

He’s about to give up his fruitless search when he spots her. The last room on the right. He doesn’t see her at first, because she’s on her hands and knees, half of her hidden by the bed frame. She’s scrubbing the carpet.

“Hard stain?” he drawls, leaning against the door frame.

Hermione jerks up with a spasm. Something flares up in her face – shame and pride and also, oddly, triumph. As if she expected the inevitable confrontation. She doesn’t get up. She rests on her haunches, gazing at him coolly.

“Do you want something, FP?”

His bluster loses some edge. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down on the floor. “Just to say sorry. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot back there.”

“You came here to apologize?”

“Among other things…Do you want help with that…?” he gestures vaguely towards the spot she’s cleaning.

“No thanks. You should probably get back to your date.”

“She’s not my date.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “That’s even worse.”

FP shrugs. “I’m an asshole, I know.”

“Will you tell anyone about this?” and she points at herself and the brush in her hand.

They have been keeping so many secrets – the nightmare of the Gargoyle King, the principal’s death, getting high on school property, his hand almost cupping her breast – what’s one more?

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He draws the sign over his chest.

Hermione shudders. “Don’t _say_ that. With all that’s happened…it’s not right to joke about it.”

“Please. Like anyone would miss me if I croaked.”

FP wants to kick himself. He doesn’t know why the hell he said something so goddamn melodramatic.

Hermione sizes him up in surprise. “You’re joking, right? Riverdale High would hold a town-wide vigil. They all adore you.”

FP chuckles, lets his hair fall in his eyes. “Not everyone. Not many, actually.”

Hermione scoffs. “Modesty really does not become you.”

FP scratches his thumb against the door jamb. He should walk away and leave it at that, go out on a high. But – he has a point to prove. And he can’t really rest until he does.

“Would you come to my vigil? Pray for my soul?” he quips.

“Of course,” she says, factually. “You definitely need it." 

 He smirks. “Do you mention me in your prayers at night?”

Hermione pushes herself off the floor. She brushes her skirt, absently lets her fingers glide against her thighs. “You’re doing it again. Flirting with me. Playing the game.”

He doesn’t know which game she’s referring to – Gargoyles and Gryphons or just, well, him being an asshole.

Could be both.

“Come on, ‘Mione. Is it against the law?”

She takes a step towards him. “No, but I don’t understand you. I’ve made my feelings clear.”

FP snorts. “Really? What about what happened at the party?”

Her spine straightens, her chest sticks out a little. It’s like she’s doing it on purpose – but no, of course not. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.  “Look, I’m not here to bother you. In fact, I’ll walk away right now. But first you gotta come clean with me.”

He almost regrets the pun.

Her shapely eyebrows knit in confusion. “Come clean about what?”

FP folds his arms. He’s not known for mincing his words. He won’t start now. “This little act you put on – we both know it’s fake. You’re into me. It’s just that it kills you to admit it.”

 _There_. It’s out there. The ball is in her court.

Hermione doesn’t react at first. It’s just like that time when he drew the black ‘X’ on her back.

She’s eerily quiet. She assesses the situation. Her eyes darken and then glide towards the bed in the middle of the room.

FP swallows. Yeah, he’s looking at the bed too.

Hermione drops the brush in the bucket. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand.  “So, you want me to…to say I like you? It’s that important for your ego?”

Half of him wishes he hadn’t started this, but another half of him needs to see this to its natural conclusion.

He shrugs. “I’m not saying anything will happen between us. It won’t. But I want you to be honest with me about it. Cuz I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

Hermione stares at him. “You really are an asshole.”

FP smiles coolly, determined to withstand her insults. He waits a beat, wonders if he should turn around and walk away, when Hermione begins to talk without looking at him.

“Okay. I’ve thought about it. I mean…it’s hard not to. You’re the classical bad boy. Every girl secretly wants to know what it’s like. But I don’t like you. I just…”

You can hear a pin drop in the silence, but he doesn’t dare to break it. He breathes slowly, stares at her mouth, waiting for her next words.

“It’s just a fantasy.” Her eyes flutter to him, the pale ghost of yearning. “Like in Gargoyles and Gryphons. I’ll be sitting behind you in class and imagine…all kinds of things. Like running my hands through your hair... tugging on it, because it’s too long and needs a haircut. Or… dragging my leg against your jeans and the fabric scratching my skin.”

FP’s mouth parts quietly, but no air comes out. The strange, candid way she narrates her girlish desires unspools him more than any drug.

“Sometimes when you put the pencil in your mouth and bite down,” she continues, taking a step forward, “I imagine you're biting on my fingers. Your front teeth are so long and sharp, I wonder what they feel like.”

“Yeah?” he asks hoarsely, throat thick with her ghostly fingers.

 “I like your hands too. Pianist hands. I picture them on my thighs, under my skirt.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” he expels.

“They’re soft, they’re like a woman’s fingers,” she says, stepping closer to him, tilting her head up. Her voice is sweet, halting, cadenced. “You don't want people to know that. But they get the job done. You slowly pull down my underwear and…it sort of snags around my knees, but no one in the classroom can tell what’s happening. No one knows where your fingers are. You’re not gentle…but it feels good.”

FP shuts his eyes. It’s the ellipses - what she leaves unspoken - that gets to him.   _Fuck_.

When he opens his eyes, Hermione is fingering her crucifix, a hypnotic movement.

“Just a fantasy,” she repeats softly. She almost brushes past him in the doorway. “…or maybe this is just another act.”

Half of her mouth tilts.

FP exhales a breath. Shudders.

She’s fucking with him. Or – or he doesn’t know.

 _Is_ she fucking with him?

Her eyes are dark and innocent and full of mirth.

 _Cold bitch_ , he thinks with a deep jolt, a frustrated ache. Barely an hour ago, he had used her image to fuck Sunny, but now he thinks that was amateur hour. God, the novelty of her, the rush and apathy, the sex without sex, the Catholic schoolgirl who only speaks in sin but doesn't allow it to touch her. 

“Anyway…” she trails off, “I hope that satisfies your ego.”

It doesn’t. Not even one bit.

But Hermione Gomez does not continue the fantasy. This isn’t Gargoyles and Gryphons. She turns away from him, picks up the bucket and walks out. 

He stands there for a long time, trying to figure out what the fuck happened. _How_ the fuck she happened.

A few hours from now, he will be jerking off to an unfinished fantasy. 

A few days from now, this moment will be clear yet feverish, just like the night of the party.  

A few weeks from now, he will see her walk down the hallway with a set of pearls shadowing her crucifix. And he will wonder if Hiram put them around her throat with his own fingers.

A few years from now, he will put his fingers inside the future mother of his children and Gladys will tell him not to stop, and he won’t be able to, because she looks just like a girl he once knew, a cold, cold bitch.

**Author's Note:**

> yall, this isn't even really that smutty, but i'm sweating like a whore in church


End file.
